


Lord of the Underground aka Mercy Had It All and Wanted More

by gyromitra



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Character Slowly Going Crazy, Dubious Consent, Extremely Unreliable Narrator, F/M, Gun as An Erotic Prop, M/M, Mafia AU, Mental Abuse, Nonconsensual Substance Abuse, Substance Abuse, Violence and Violent Imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyromitra/pseuds/gyromitra
Summary: A Mafia Boss and an Undercover Cop, between them Mercy. One of them dies, one of them goes crazy, one of them fights till the end. And nothing goes according to the plan.
POV: An Extremely Unrealiable Narrator. Please, read notes.
A funeral. It starts with a funeral on a pretty mellow day. And a haunting. When you enter the lion’s den remember the lioness can be more dangerous than the lion himself.





	1. Lord of the Underground 1

Where do I start? Maybe I start with his eyes. I can’t say for sure what color they are, but I know they are cold, emotionless. They seem to mock everything, and the thing they do mock the most is me. Never, not even when he smiles, always so distantly and unreachably, with no mercy, do they seem to change.

I hate them. I dream of plucking them out. Of shooting him twice in the head, one bullet for each eye, so he cannot look at me like that anymore. His stare pierces, reaches deep, and this action lets him know everything that is there to you – that ever was.

To his enemies he is Reaper. To his family he is Gabriel. But no one knows his real name or where he comes from. He is, just a part of mystery. More of a legend. Fucking Keiser Soze. 

There is a smell of gasoline and blood in the air, of rotting waste, rust and fear…

I can’t smell anything else.

And he stands few steps away, touching the butt of a gun to his temple, his eyes half lidded, mocking, mocking as the smile on his lips. Shaking his head.

“A cop.” He snorts. It makes me want to throw myself at him with everything I have, but there are no delusions of power left. Even if I were not chained to the metal pole, I wouldn’t be able to make those few steps. Only the cuffs keep me standing, and I can’t feel my hands anymore.

“Finish this.” I can’t stop being surprised by my own words and voice. I don’t recognize this raspy, hardly audible, coarse whisper. I don’t recognize this desperation and resignation. And then, only then, it hits me I’m already dead. There will be no rescue. No cavalry coming. No one knows where I am and what is going down right now. The madman standing before me will decide how exactly do I die. “Finish this,” I repeat.

“Right attitude, for once.” He rolls the sounds on his tongue, in that exact precise way that makes something break so loud inside me.

If you write your name in blood, you pledge you soul to the devil. It seems the moment of death is full of fucking revelations.

He steps over a body and stoops down, only to rise with a lighter held between his fingers. He lights a cigarette from his front pocket and comes closer, inhaling the smoke.

“If I could only say it surprised me.” I can only bow my head. He’s close, oh, so close, that I almost feel the heat of his body.

“Since when…?”

“From the very beginning, sunshine.”

So that’s what it was. He used me from the start. He gave me scraps and didn’t react when I utilized them. The glow of his cigarette is too close to my shirt. The fabric will probably explode in flames soon when the gas fumes ignite. The will to fight… the will to fight left me the moment he spoke, and now I can’t stop thinking that the blaze will consume his hair too. He touches my stomach and the hand moves lower.

“Only a game?”

“Only a game,” he confirms, and I raise my head to gaze at his face. I have a foolish hope I will see there something I haven’t seen before. Eyes, lips with a cigarette hanging from between them, cheeks, brows, the jaw line. And the mouth of a gun barrel. I almost smile.

Bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking through my very old stories, sifting for ideas written out that weren’t just simply embarrassing or stupid – and reread this one. Or this one and the other one. And, god, was I an edgelord, supposedly still am, but those two stories, they were always my favorites. They had it all, an abusive relationship, violence, characters with no moral high ground, obsession and treachery all around. They were both ambiguous. They had an unreliable narrator and no objectively good ending – but some might consider it a ‘good’ ending. And there was never a fandom I could possibly see this story take place in, the dynamic and the dissolution of reality would have always been off by miles. But then it clicked with the Reaper / Soldier (not Jack / Gabriel) dynamic so well and so suddenly I was truly surprised. What helped is the fact the original story does contain elements that seem just like taken out of the OW canon.
> 
> If you know this story (only a part of it was published many years ago in Polish fandom on NL and BiA), and want to tell me I plagiarized it, contact me and I will prove to you the only person being plagiarized is me myself by myself.
> 
> I considered posting this story under a penname similar to my old one in Polish fandom, but since I’m rewriting it a shit-ton and translating at the same time, trying for shit and giggles to keep the feel of the narrator’s sanity and sense of reality unraveling, I’m posting it under the new one. 
> 
> I’m not stopping the other stories. But this was something I HAD to do.


	2. Mercy Had It All and Wanted More 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral. It starts with a funeral on a pretty mellow day. And a haunting.

The funeral takes place on the most ordinary day there can be out of all possible days. Rain doesn’t pour atmospherically nor does the sun shine with a false pretense of hope for tomorrow. I think that he would have liked it that way.

Yes, he would have.

Angela, in a dark veil and that short little black dress, too short, far too short – enough that it makes me want to puke – takes the place of honor, Jesse held on her lap. She plays her part perfectly. She’s a wife of a dead mobster. Everything that belonged to him now belongs to her, before it will belong to their son.

Her cold and shrewd soul probably sneers in triumph baring those bleached for few thousand dollars fangs. They were perfect together, both worth every ounce and pinch of each other.

She looks in my direction and for a second I can believe, it terrifies me, that she can see me, here, far, far away among the trees.

At last, the mourners disperse. I open a bottle of cheap whiskey to toast the dead. The soil over the casket pliable and I sink into it when I get down.

“Everything went wrong, didn’t it?” Damp earth is slimy, sickeningly so, between my fingers. Nausea comes back and hits me hard. Is the murder committed in your mind real? “You fucking arrogant son of a bitch! You fucking fag, I hope you’re burning in hell… I hope you’re waiting there for that bitch…”

The marble of the headstone is cool but the shiver that makes me cold is something entirely different. Icy touch crawls up my neck. A sound of safety going off. Glacial fingers on my cheek.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for her here now…?” A raspy whisper just by my ear. There is blood on my hands. There is blood on my hands… it’s on my hands, my face, everywhere around me… “Or maybe I’m waiting just for you, sunshine?”

A click again.

I wake up in darkness, in cold sweat, in my own bed that’s now alien and terrifying, even more than the rest of the flat, more than everything and anything else. Real world doesn’t exist anymore. He stands in the corner, in the shadow, unseen, and he isn’t there truth be told, I know that. He isn’t here, he was never here. Nor was he by the grave.

“You know what you have to do.” He stares at me with that scorn reserved only for those inferior to him. His gaze drives me mad. It drives me to a boiling point. But even if you could crush a ghost’s head, smash it against a corner of the table enough to leave nothing but pulp, his gaze would remain, in those fucking eyes that haunt me, in those swollen lips mimicking a mocking smile, in the bloodcurdling spatter on the wall, and in everything else that makes my head fucking hurt.

“Yes.” I turn my face away. He is not there. Despite that, he smiles in a corpselike pallor.

A gun lies in the sheets. No serial numbers. Registered as scrapped. Untraceable. I take it, weight it in my hand, check the chamber.

A light kiss to my forehead grips and squeezes my insides with ice. It’s cold. The gun in my hand is reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, I actually scrapped around five different translations. Shot them right between their eyes. And dropped a chapter that had a too much edge history and made everything much more confusing than it should be. Translating is much harder than writing from scratch, I admit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you enter the lion’s den remember the lioness can be more dangerous than the lion himself.

I can feel it on my back, the gaze of the men in the cars with tinted windows parked around. My body is freezing and wound tight, and every move is pain and screeching creaky thump of joints cracking, popping in and out. Even with the sun my teeth are chattering. The weight in my pocket pulls me to the ground.

No one tries to stop me when I cross the lawn full of toys strewn about and left behind. Overturned plastic bike terrifies me. The ribbons tied to the steering wheel waver in the air even with no wind – like now. It takes courage I don’t have in me to ring the bell.

She opens, her smile so insincere that my hand wants to do it now, in full view of anyone interested, have everything and anything done already. Have my head shot off, drag my last wheezing breath in lying in a pool of my own blood, have my neck broken in a jail cell, all made up like a suicide.

“So good to see you!” Angela sweetly coos, stepping back, inviting me inside, into the dangerous dim, exactly like then, but I know what does not wait now at the heart of the darkness resting within.

Earlier, here was a hell made of eyes, eyes that now reside inside of me and follow me from every darkened nook and cranny, eyes you cannot escape from however much you want to. He smiled, and his smile was sincere in its anticipation of an entertainment. He is still here, in the darkness, his silhouette in the armchair, hair playfully framing his face.

_I’m still standing here, in the past, aghast, as he stands up measuring me with his eyes._

_“On your knees,” he orders and I can’t stop thinking that I’m going to die now, die just like this, that they know everything, everything’s been for nothing, and I’m going to die now and here, just like this, without a reason… The blow from behind pushes me to the ground. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”_

_And when I gather the strength and look up, I stare into a barrel of a gun, and above it, there are those gleaming eyes, and lips, curling up slightly over the teeth._

_Cold metal forced into my mouth. I can feel it cracking a tooth. And I can’t move, I can’t move a muscle, even if everything screams for me to try, to escape. I’m paralyzed. I’m dead. I’m dead from the moment I set my foot in the dim corridor past the entrance. I’m truly indisputably dead._

_“Do you know what will happen when I pull the trigger?” When, he says. When, not if. “You won’t die, at least not that fast. Maybe the bullet will even crack the spine. Who knows?”_

_And suddenly, all at once, so abruptly I fail to breathe in, the metal is gone, void in its stead. There’s a string of dribble connecting the gun and my lips. My heart goes crazy, the beat irregular._

_“I love the smell of fear,” he leans over me, his fingers grazing my jaw. I hardly notice it. “It excites me.” The hand travels upwards, nails on my lips. They’re filed pointed and sharp, draw blood. “Reinhardt sent you, with a good word.” I can feel the emptiness inside, the terrifying nothingness where nothing matters. His fingers tangle in my hair. “We will see if you are of any…”_

“…use.” It’s her fingers that touch my head, that move over the stitches. She leans over the coffee table, holding my gaze. I don’t know, I can’t remember. I have no idea what she was talking about earlier. “In the end, he left behind both of us, after all.”

She knows, she fucking knows, why I’m here. She just knows. And I know what she has done, and she knows I know that. I swallow. I’m a witness. I can discredit her. She can destroy me. It’s the second time I’ve entered the lion’s den, but I didn’t think that the lioness is as dangerous as the lion himself. Or maybe she’s even worse.

Angela smiles with gentleness, how I hate her smile, and slides to me, kisses me. She is beautiful. She’s a fucking black widow. She is a wife of a dead Mafioso. I frantically tear off her fucking cute little sweater. We can’t come apart. She bites. She injects her venom. Her tongue pushes a pill I swallow.

“That’s what you came for too, isn’t it?” She pants, with her face contracted in hate that’s maybe supposed to be ecstasy. We rut and he observes from the shadows, in silent mockery, just like then. And I feel the same disgust, just like then, when I was wiping my mouth with a back of my own hand.

After everything, she gives me a plastic bag full of drugs. Escorts me to the exit. Kisses me goodbye.

“Everything should stay in the family,” Angela whispers and I know what she means. Everything that ever belonged to him is now hers. Everything. Including me.

I leave. None of the men in the cars with tinted windows parked around move to stop me. It’s the first time I can feel myself relaxing in god knows how long. It’s the first time I feel I can face him – as long as there are drugs left. And she knows I will be back for more.

I swallow two more. My hands are not shaking anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty happy with this one translation, even if nothing much happens here. It's more of a backstory builder chapter that hints a bit few reasons why the narrator is seriously fucked up (but there is a lot more going on). 
> 
> I decided to make the division between recollections and reality stronger than in the original, it made up for some pretty confusing situations in future installments -not that I didn't like the confusing factor myself, but then, it doesn't work that well in another language that doesn't have full variety of declination and personalization by verbs, nouns and pronouns (and other classes of words - how fortunate be ye if your problems are only he/she and your first person is not gendered by almost everything except the descriptive present tense verbs and the word 'I' you hardly ever use in consciousness stream). Now, next on menu would be les revenants and crack/valentines stuff, so...


End file.
